


A Study in Paws

by Strange_johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Cats, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Just Add Kittens, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Mary either (but we don't care about that), No Rosie in this one, Romance, they are soft and in love, with a sprinkle of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:21:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26437855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strange_johnlock/pseuds/Strange_johnlock
Summary: "What do you need the milk for?”“I don’t need it. The kittens do.”As if they knew they were being talked about, the quiet room is filled with high pitched, tiny meows. John is right next to Sherlock within a few steps, and there, on his chair in a small box, are three of the tiniest kittens he has ever seen.3 Kittens move into 221B. It's as simple as that.Oh, and John and Sherlock are in love, but they are also idiots.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 80
Kudos: 234





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Johnlock2708](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnlock2708/gifts).



> Thank you to Amelia for beta reading, I am eternally grateful
> 
> And to @johnlock2708 on Twitter for inspiring me to write this story and taking part in developing it :*  
> PS your suggestions for german titels made me even more fond of you :P

He had been waiting to hear the soft click of the door opening for almost seventy-two hours, so much so that it wakes him from his light sleep when Sherlock Holmes finally returns to their shared flat.

It should surprise him, that he immediately sits up and proceeds to get out of bed. He hasn’t seen Sherlock’s face in too long, and the urge to do so leads him down the stairs and into the dimly lit living room before he is even fully awake. He should worry, that this is how he feels about his mad flatmate, but the longing settled within every inch of his body so long ago that it has become a part of him, a part that he won't even try to fight anymore. He is a soldier; he knows when a battle is lost. Instead, he has decided that this simmering of longing is something he will happily live with for the rest of his life.

He expects Sherlock to be full of energy, buzzing with the adrenaline that a successful case brings – John knows that buzz firsthand and wishes he could have joined him. Sherlock is most beautiful then, glowing even, and when he slowly calms down, sipping a cup of tea John has made for him, he seems so calm, almost vulnerable and John secretly enjoys those moments.

John comes in from through the kitchen, putting the kettle on before he steps through to the surprisingly quiet living room. Sherlock is there already, he can hear the old floors creak and the rustle of his coat, but there is no yelling or enthusiastic violin playing going on.

Instead, John finds Sherlock standing in the middle of the room staring at something that seems to be on John’s chair, hidden from the doctor’s view.

Having lived with the detective for three years –with a two-year break- John knows that the object currently holding Sherlocks attention could be anything. A human head, or the contents of a rubbish bin, John is fully awake by now.

Sherlock says his name without looking away, completely focused. “Do we have milk?”

John wants to tell him that it's three in the morning, and that they haven’t seen each other in days, instead, he just brushes a strand of hair from his forehead.

“What do you need milk for?” He asks, wondering if it might be dangerous to step closer – but it’s not like that’s stopped him before.

“Cats like milk.”

And isn’t that a very Sherlockian answer, the detective’s brain is surely ten steps ahead already. “Cats? Does this have to do with the case? You haven’t solved it yet?”

Sherlock glances at him for the first time, then, affronted. “Of course, I solved it, John.” He says. “Solved it the moment I saw the body. Easy. Child’s play. You could have solved it.”

“Yeah, thanks. Still doesn’t answer my question. What do you need the milk for?”

“I don’t need it. The kittens do.”

As if they knew they were being talked about, the quiet room is filled with high pitched, tiny meows. John is right next to Sherlock within a few steps, and there, on his chair in a small box, are three of the tiniest kittens he has ever seen. They have huge heads compared to their small, skinny bodies and blue eyes which wake the urge to protect them immediately. John has of course heard of the kindchenschema, but that knowledge doesn’t make him immune to it at all. Except for their eye colour, all three of them are different. The largest one of the bunch has orange longish fur, the one in the middle is grey, and the third one black with a white belly and white paws.

“Oh my god, Sherlock. What...?”

“I was chasing the suspect down an alley when I heard them. Forgot about the suspect. Gavin was there anyway. I couldn’t let them starve, John.” The detective’s voice gets all soft, as he leans down and looks at the small ones from up close. “They can’t be older than six or seven weeks.”

“God, they should be with their mother, still, shouldn’t they?”

A brisk nod, and John can see the anger at whoever did this plainly written onto his face. “They need special formula for kittens, but regular milk will have to do for now.”

“Good thing I bought some today. Let me get a bowl ready. They can eat from a bowl, can they?”

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. “Not a cat expert. But we will see.”

John quickly goes to the kitchen, getting the milk carton and three bowls to avoid sibling rivalry. He mixes the milk with water, all while listening to Sherlock, who has started talking to the kittens now. A small smile tucks at the corners of his mouth, as the detective introduces first himself, and then John.

“He’s very good at taking care of strays.” Sherlock leans over the box. “He’ll make sure you will eat enough. I do forget, sometimes, but he takes care of me.”

The words warm John’s heart, the persistent love he has for this man bubbling up to the surface. It makes his heart beat just a bit faster, pinkens his cheeks and makes his palms go sweaty.

“Shit.” John mumbles, drying his hands off. He hates moments like this. They always feel like a threat to their friendship, like he is asking for too much. Taking care of Sherlock is what John wants to do for the rest of his life. It’s stupid, falling in love with a man that doesn’t do relationships, his best friend, the man he can’t live without- he was forced to try doing that and miserably failed.

He takes two deep breaths before he carries two of the bowls over to his armchair. Sherlock has taken the kittens out of the box by now, the red one hiding behind the leg of the chair, his grey sibling wobbling through the middle of the room. The last kitten looks tiny in Sherlock’s large hands, head tucked against long, slender fingers.

John places the milk on the floor, quickly attracting the third one. Contrary to John’s expectations, they don’t immediately run at it, but instead suspiciously glare at both the humans in the room.

“Let’s give them some space, Sherlock. Tea?”

“Yes. I’m going to take a quick shower. I did have to go through the rubbish bins to make sure I found all of them.” John can just imagine this immaculately dressed man crawling around a dark, dirty alley in his search for the kittens. He smiles as he watches him leave, then sets to make tea, eyes always straying away to look at what the three musketeers, as he decides to refer to them, are doing.

The ginger kitten is still at her spot behind the chair, eyes fixed to the potential food source, while his siblings seem more interested in the belt from Sherlock’s bathroom, which is hanging off the desk. Little grey is pawing at it first, before jumping back a bit.

“God, there are cats in our flat.” John says to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. And neither of them knows anything about cats, at least John has never heard about Sherlock keeping one as a pet.

There are a few options. They can call a shelter in the morning and drop them off there, where the experts can take care of the orphans. Or they could post on the blog about it, find new homes for them as quickly as possible. But then John has seen Sherlock’s eyes, has seen the way his flatmate looked at the little ones, and he knows already that there is no point in fighting him on this. As he glances over at the three, he wonders if he even wants to. He has a few days off, anyway, and it can’t be rocket science, can it? They can still be rehomed in a few weeks once they have gained a bit of weight.

“We’ll need kitten milk, and they might be old enough to try cat food too, a litter box, and a cat bed.” Sherlock’s hair is damp, he smells of sage and honey, and he is reading John’s thoughts again.

“I don’t think we should … you know, we can’t keep them, don’t you?” Sherlock’s heart breaking is visible on his face, and he says “but John” the way kids say “but Mum”.

“We’re both busy with The Work, there are dangerous chemicals in this flat most of the time, we have no experience with cats… I could go on, Sherlock.”

“But look at them, John. They need us.” He points at the trio, all of them now gathered around one of the bowls, closely tucked together. “They would have starved out there.”

“I know, Sherlock.” John reaches out, fingers closing around Sherlock’s shoulder to squeeze it and he lets his palm rest against the soft fabric of his pyjama top for a moment longer than is strictly necessary... or appropriate for that matter. How easy it would be, to let his fingers travel along Sherlock’s shoulder, stroke his pale, soft skin and tuck back that one stray curl. Oh, and to rest his forehead in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, breathe in his scent. Nowhere, John is sure, would he ever feel more safe than with his flat mate’s arms wrapped around him.

He doesn’t do it, of course. Like so many times before, he just swallows down that urge.

“You did well, bringing them here. Just…,” His voice is strangely rough, and he clears his throat. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay. We’ll get the basics, as soon as the shops open, and then we’ll see.”

And Sherlock smiles, knowing he has already won.


	2. Chapter 2

John comes downstairs for the second time that morning to find Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, covered in kittens. After waking up, he had questioned whether or not it had all been a dream.

He is still lovesick, but at least the kittens are real, little balls of fur sleeping curled up against the detective and seeking his warmth. John can only see the mop of dark curls and the detective’s torso and long legs, but he knows he is asleep as well, the orange kitten resting against his bare feet, the grey one on his belly and the tuxedo cat on the arm rest close to his head.

“They need names,” John thinks, as he walks over to the desk to pick up last night’s tea mugs. “We can’t keep calling them orange, grey and tuxedo.” He doesn’t come far on his way to the kitchen, the picture of his flat mate deeply asleep catching his attention. The man hasn’t slept in days, and no matter how many times he insists on it, even he needs time to get his energy back. Sleep makes his features softer, gives him three chins and his lips now hang slightly open. John wants to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, rub his nose against a cheekbone and whisper “Go to bed, love.”

Instead, he allows himself another look, then goes to put on the kettle before he goes to use the loo, when he notices stacks of cat food on the worktop, next to bottles of milk. John checks his watch. Half past eight. He’s sure Sherlock hasn’t left the flat yet, not that Sherlock would care about going out in pyjamas. But this has Mycroft written all over it, and John lifts a hand to wave at the cupboard over the sink, the place he’s convinced the elder Holmes has hidden at least one of his cameras.

After returning from the bathroom, which now has the addition of a litter box- the poshest one he has ever seen, all black and silver- John decides to make breakfast, just in case Sherlock decides to wake up in the next half an hour – he is used to uneaten toast and scrambled eggs gone cold. Still, he has not given up on feeding Sherlock Holmes over the years.

There is a nudge against his ankle and John looks down to find the grey kitten looking up at him with big eyes. “Well hello. You scared the hell out of me.” He leans down to pet her, she rubs her tiny head against the inside of John’s palm and it does not take more for John to fall in love with her. “You definitely are the cutest stray Sherlock has ever brought here. Not that the drug dealers and homeless people put up much of a competition.” He strokes behind her ears.

“Are you hungry?”

She doesn’t answer, of course, though she looks at him as if she could at any moment if she wanted to. He is surprised by her friendliness towards him after all the bad experiences she had probably gone through with other humans, experiences that made her and her siblings end up in a dirty London alley.

At that thought, John notes that they should have the three of them checked up by a vet soon, just to make sure they are doing okay, they look better already after a night in the warm flat.

“I’ll get you another bowl of milk, yeah? So you’ll get big and strong?”

He picks up last night's bowl, cleans it out a bit and fills it with cat milk. She drinks greedily and John chuckles, but his heart aches for her. As he prepares breakfast, his eyes return to the grey kitten over and over as she empties the bowl.

“God, even the noises you make while eating are cute.” John butters four slices of toast, adds jam on half of them and leaves the others plain for Sherlock. He arranges them on two plates and places them on the kitchen table.

That noise wakes the other occupants of 221B, as three pairs of footsteps come up to the kitchen, two cats and one human. All three look a bit ruffled and tired but motivated by the food.

“Morning.” John greets Sherlock with a soft smile. “Toast?”

Sherlock grumbles a yes, then flops into one of the chairs and John pushes the plate in front of him.

“Late night?”

“Yes, you could say that. These three little rascals are very playful, and Mycroft’s men showed up with all that stuff.” He gestures at all of the cat utensils now stacked in their kitchen and the toys in the living room.

“Well, he did spare us a trip to the pet shop.” John shrugs. “Do you have names for them already?”

Sherlock puts his tea mug down and shakes his head. “They are your cats, too.” He says, then yawns loudly.

“Oh, I wasn’t aware this was a democracy.” John jokes, pulling his own chair back to sit.

“Well, I have to at least make you believe that a few times a year.” Sherlock grins back.

“Very clever. The words of a true dictator.”

“I was thinking king, actually.”

“Humble.”

They giggle, which seems to scare the tuxedo cat, as she hides behind the curtains. That only makes them laugh louder, her shocked and offended face hilarious. When they calm down, John asks. “So, any suggestions?”

“Well, I thought we could just name them John. Simple, short, easy to remember”

“Nope.” John pops the p the way Sherlock usually does. “We’re not naming any of them after me.”

The detective pouts, his full lower lip sticking out and John has to lower his gaze for a moment. “Why?” he asks.

“Because I don’t want to traumatise the neighbours or our clients if they overhear you saying things like ‘John, stop biting my toes. John, get off the table. John, get your behind out of my face.”

Their eyes meet, and John feels his face redden at the last comment.

“I don’t think you are arguing for your case, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock says and if he wouldn’t know better, John would think this was flirting. But it isn’t, and he has to remind himself of that fact again and again.

“So, not John.” He says, clearing his throat.

“Hmm, the fat one should be Mycroft.”

“Agreed. Mykie, just to annoy him.”

“Mycroft’ is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle all the way to the end.” Sherlock says, voice a high-pitched parody of what his brother sounds like. They burst into another set of giggles.

“So, Mykie for the orange kitten. That leaves grey and tuxedo.” John looks at the kitten, currently busy licking his belly, leg sticking up into the air, and that must be the most ridiculous thing John has ever seen.

“Hmm, Graham for the grey one.”

“It’s Greg, Sherlock, are you just going through people you know?”

“Maybe.” Sherlock takes another sip of his tea, hiding his face behind his mug.

“But I actually like Graham. Suits him. Or her? Do we actually know?”

“The black and white one is the only girl.” Sherlock looks at her as he currently hangs off the curtain she was hiding behind only minutes ago.

“How about Hudders, then, if we want to keep the pattern.

“Oh yes, I like that. Mykie, Graham and Hudders.”

“We should take them to the vet, get them checked out. They are very thin, and they might have parasites. Also, we still have to have that discussion about keeping them.”

“I think I need some sleep before that.” Sherlock gets up, taking his dishes to the sink.

“As your doctor, I approve of that. You know what, I’ll take them to the vet, you get a bit of rest and then we’ll decide?”

That private smile Sherlock only uses on him and Mrs. Hudson, appears on the detective’s face. “Thank you.” He says, and John thinks he would adopt three full grown tigers to the flat if he only got to see that once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today is not a good day. Maybe this can lighten up yours a bit :)


	3. Chapter 3

Two hours later, John knows one thing for sure. Vet appointments with three kittens are not at all fun, especially with over an hour of time of said visit being spent in a cramped waiting room between dogs and rabbits and a very vocal parrot. Mykie, Graham and Hudders were not very keen on being cramped into their small box and confused about being away from the flat, they started yelling as soon as he sat down with them. The appointment with the vet itself was brief. She checked for parasites, dewormed, and vaccinated them.

Sherlock, the git, of course had been right. They were about eight weeks old, just old enough to be taken away from their mom, and John wonders if the people that left them in the alley waited for that moment intentionally and whether that was good or bad. It most likely maximised their chance of survival, but then why did the person not just give them up for adoption or drop them off at a shelter?

Maybe Sherlock already knew, had already solved the case of the abandoned kittens. “Good thing he found you.” John says to his yelling passengers as he unlocks the front door. “He’s a bit mad, but that’s what makes it so great living with him. Oh, Mrs. H.”

Their landlady is standing on the second step, apparently on her way upstairs and she turns when she hears his voice. Seeing her reminds John that they should have talked to her immediately. She is their landlady, and John doesn’t have a clue about her animal policy.

“John. Good morning. I was just going up to see what Sherlock is up to,” She smiles, then tilts her head suspiciously. “What is that?”

“Ahm, Sherlock brought home some strays.” He lifts the pet carrier a bit to draw her attention to it.

“Well, it looks like you’re the one bringing them home.” Mrs Hudson says softly, coming towards him. “Oh, they’re so tiny.” She reaches out, fitting a finger to one of the gaps to brush it over Hudders back. “And so soft.”

“We’re just on our way back from the vet. They needed a check-up.” John puts them down for a moment to take off his jacket.

“Oh, I want to see them. Come in, I’ll make you a cup of tea and have a look at those sweeties. How many are there?” She’s already leading him to 221A and he follows compliantly.

“Three.”

“That’s a lot of cats. My husband had a jaguar. Elegant little thing, but very feisty.” Her voice sounds nonchalant, as she puts on the kettle and gets a few biscuits.

“The life you’ve led, Mrs. Hudson.” John smiles, leaning down to open the carrier. Graham jumps out immediately and looks around, Hudders presses herself into a corner and Mykie starts to clean himself, looking very superior as he does so.

“Oh, it was nothing.” Their landlady places the biscuits onto a plate, sits on her usual chair and looks at Mykie, who has decided that jumping out off the carrier himself is beneath him. “Those three are way cuter. And I bet they’ll be a little kinder to my furniture. Oh, I’ll leave my door open so they can visit anytime, okay? That way they won’t be so lonely when you boys are away.”

John feels relief at her apparent acceptance of their new little flatmates. “So, this is okay with you?”

“The surprises you boys have in store for me keep me young, John.” She leans down in her slow but elegant way to pet Graham, who is always interested in new things and apparently also new people. He rubs his little hand against her palm, and she makes an excited noise.

“Oh, hello lovely. I’m Mrs. Hudson, your landlady.”

Graham meows, then dashes off to chase after something John can’t see.

“You have to let them visit me, really, John.” She gets up and squeezes his shoulder before sitting back down on her chair, John promises her that he will.

“I think I should bring them upstairs before they shit in your pot plants.” He brings his mug to the sink. “But you can visit anytime, of course. Come up whenever you like.”

“I was just going to check on Sherlock when you came home. He’s been up to something.”

John raises an eyebrow from where he is bending down to pick up Graham. “He said he was going to sleep.”

“Well, he must be sleepwalking, then. I’ve been hearing him all morning, carrying stuff around. No shooting, though, which is a good sign.”

“Guess I’ll know soon.” He picks up the carrier with the three kittens. “It’s like leaving a toddler alone for three minutes. You never know what he can do in a short amount of time.” John kisses Mrs. Hudson’s cheek.

“He’s gotten better since he met you, you know, and since you moved back in.”

Memories come rushing back of the time he spent away from 221 Baker Street because he couldn’t bear to see it without Sherlock in it, memories of another bedsit, of days that turned into weeks without John noticing or caring. He remembers too, how the world lit up again when Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead with a flair of his stupid coat and a wink.

John had wanted to punch him, put instead pulled him against his chest and didn’t let go, afraid that if he did, he’d find it would all be a dream. He had clung to him, fingers clenching the fabric of his coat, nose pressed into it, overjoyed, and overwhelmed. The memory alone gives him goosebumps under his button down and he rubs a hand over it, feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s good to have him back.” They both know it is an understatement, Mrs. Hudson’s eyes say as much, but she doesn’t comment, just smiles at him.

“I’ll come up later for teatime, John, to look at those cuties again.”

John kisses her cheek, then makes his way to 221b. He is stopped at the top of the stairs by a barrier that reminds him of a baby gate, so lost in thought that he almost falls over it. John curses, then calls for Sherlock’s name.

A dark head of curls appears in the kitchen doorway. “Oh, John. You’re back.” He says with a smile.

“Well, I would be if I could actually enter the bloody flat.”

There is a surprised expression on the detective’s face, as if he hadn’t considered that his barricade could somehow be in the way. “I forget sometimes how small you are, John...” He gets a threatening look from John for that. “I can just step over them.”

“What are they?”

“The flat needs to be cat safe, John. We can’t have them running out onto the street when we have to dash out for a case. And they are sneaky. We could easily overlook them.”

“That’s very considerate,” John says, handing him the carrier to click open the gate. “I didn’t even think about that.” Only now does he notice the second gate at the stairs that lead up to his room.

Sherlock mumbles something John can’t hear as he lets the kittens out of the box, scratching each of them behind the ears for a bit. John watches, fascinated by the bond he has formed with them over such a short period of time. When he realizes he’s standing in the hallway like a loon he makes his way to the living room. John finds that there are now screens in front of their windows that will allow them to still get fresh air in but will stop the kittens from getting out.

“Bet they’re in the entire flat.” He mumbles to himself, finding this very rational decision to just be more proof of Sherlock’s heart, so well hidden behind sharp deductions and posh suits. “Where did you get all this stuff in such a short time?” He says, louder this time, so Sherlock can hear him in the kitchen.

“Someone owed me a favour.” Is all he gets as an answer, which makes John wonder, not for the first time, if Sherlock will ever run out of those. 


	4. Chapter 4

John had started a list a few days after the kittens had moved in. The working title so far is ‘funny things Sherlock said to/about our cats’. He isn’t planning on publishing it, but he wants to remember, and maybe share it with Lestrade or Molly, just for fun. On the other hand, those intimate moments might only be for him to keep. He feels that he needs to protect that vulnerable side of Sherlock, to keep it hidden from the world outside. It’s a silly notion, Sherlock is an adult, the cleverest man John has ever met. It is not the brain that John wants to keep safe, but his heart.

John looks down at Graham, curled up in his lap, tail tucked against his belly. “Our secret, buddy.” He says to the sleeping kitten, stroking his paw.

The doctor’s eyes stray away from Graham for a moment to take in the living room, cramped and cosy as it has always been, the sliding door to the kitchen standing open. Soon he will have to switch on the lights, but in this moment the dust is still dancing in the last rays of sunshine. It’s quiet, except for the noises coming from the street- cars and chatter, and those an old house usually makes- the wind making the blinds in front of the windows rattle. His eyes find Sherlock curled up on the sofa and making soft huffing noises as he sleeps.

“Those are just for me as well.” John thinks, then turns his head away quickly. God, he feels like a creep. Maybe he should be honest with Sherlock about his feelings. Not that he expects them to be reciprocated, but at least that would give Sherlock a choice as to whether or not he wants to share a flat with a guy who is secretly lusting over him. The thought turns his stomach into knots.

He had promised himself that he would never again leave Sherlock’s side, not now that he knows what losing him feels like, how it has torn him apart. John is not going to risk that, not for some silly crush.

“Not a crush,” His mind supplies “More than that.”

John forces his eyes onto the screen, focusing on the bullet points that he has written so far. He takes a sip of tea, hoping for a moment it will taste different, weird maybe, so his mind can stray away from the dark thoughts that will surely keep him up tonight. He starts reading, mug still in hand.

  * “Hudders, I appreciate your attempts in sharpening your claws, but please be aware that John is very fond of this sofa. So please, use your cat tree for that.”



  * “Graham. My toes are, even if they seem entertaining, not cat toys.”



  * “Mykie. Stop eating.” (Three times so far)



  * “Those are cats, Gavin. Don’t look as if you have entered our flat to find children running around.”



  * “I am a very clever man, Hudders, and I will not be outsmarted by a cat. Come down here, now, please. This is not a good spot for a kitten.



  * “Mykie. That is human food. Not that you care.”



  * “Yes, Mrs. Hudson, she is indeed named after you, though she is thankfully more quiet, almost shy.”



  * “No, Molly, cats don’t have play dates.”



When he finishes, John realises he’s smiling again. If he thinks about it, not much has changed in the last few weeks in Baker Street. They solved two cases, sevens, John went to the clinic and worked on his blog whenever he had a quiet minute, with the small addition that every time he sat down he found himself with a kitten in his lap a few moments later.

Yes, there were accidents including pee, and Mykie can get very loud when he wants food- which is always- but John would’ve thought that having cats would be way more difficult and chaotic. Maybe it’s just that he is used to a high level of chaos ever since he started living with the world’s only consulting detective.

But something changed in a way he didn’t expect. Not only did the little ones conquer his heart within days, he also got used to their presence very quickly. Coming home now includes him greeting Sherlock, then finding the three musketeers one after the other and petting them for a moment before he has even taken his jacket off. He catches himself wondering from time to time where they are and what they might be up to if the flat is too quiet for too long. 

The biggest change he sees is in Sherlock, though. The self-proclaimed sociopath interacts with Mykie, Graham and Hudders in such a loving way, that John has to stop what he is doing a lot of times just to watch them.

He’s so very fond of them and John is so very fond of this brilliant, clever, soft man. He loves those small smiles and how frequent they have become. The detective seems so calm, almost even-tempered and happy, with at least one fur ball present whenever his mood might switch to bored or aggravated.

John is pulled out of his thoughts by Graham yawning and getting to his feet. The little one stretches, brushes his tongue over his right leg, before jumping to the floor. With a look at John, he walks directly to the kitchen.

“I should start another list. ‘What our cats are saying without words’. That one was definitely a ‘feed me, now.’” John grins and follows him. By the time he had the tin with cat food open, two more hungry mouths were waiting. John gets a few head bumps against his shins, scratches a few ears, then decides to use the loo while the kittens feast.

When he returns, Sherlock is sitting at the desk, hair ruffled and legs tucked to his chest, staring at John’s computer screen. John freezes. The document with his list is still open and clearly, the detective has seen it. 


	5. Chapter 5

He will find it ridiculous, will comment on the uselessness of the list, and John’s first instinct is to hurry over there and pull the laptop away, even though it is too late for that, now. Instead, he looks at him, ready to get this embarrassing situation over with.

“It’s my laptop.” He comments, trying to get a bit of an upper hand in this, even though he knows he will not win this discussion – he hasn’t once in all these years. Sherlock knows this just as well as John and doesn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he keeps looking at the list in front of him.

“This is about me.” Sherlock says quietly and John is surprised to hear him stating something obvious.

“I know. Can you just tell me it’s stupid and sentimental and get this over with?” John shifts his weight from one leg to the other, nervous.

He watches Sherlock stretch unfurl from the chair, as the detective stretches his legs under the table slowly, although John knows that inside his brilliant brain is working on overdrive. Pale eyes now find John’s, their gaze so intense, the doctor has to look away before they pierce the skin to reveal his heart that loves so much. When Sherlock speaks, he realises it is too late.

“This is… You are very fond of me, aren’t you?” Sherlock’s voice is low and soft, where John expected it to be teasing, mocking him. And John doesn’t know how he deduced that from a list that was supposed to be funny, and he is not questioning that right now.

Instead, he is concerned with how to react to something like this. A lot of possible answers run through his mind. “It was just a bit of fun.” “Get off my laptop, you git.” “Get off your high horse, you know you’re my best friend.” “I’m fond of our cats, mate.” Anything to not have to admit how much he loves his flatmate. But then there is something vulnerable about Sherlock in this moment, hovering in the lines on his forehead and the frown around his mouth, filling pale eyes, making his fingers twitch and his shoulders drop.

There is a light pressure against his calve, nudging him in Sherlock’s direction and John doesn’t look down to check which of the kittens is pushing him towards his best friend. Instead, his eyes fix on Sherlock as he takes two steps, three. He tracks every reaction, wanting to catch any doubt, but finding none. Surprise turns into realisation on those beautiful features as John leans down and cups Sherlock’s face in his hands. Swallowing, John brushes his thumb over a cheekbone. There is no rush, anymore. They are here, now, together and all doubt John had that Sherlock could possibly not feel the same way is brushed aside.

Closing his eyes for a moment, John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s, takes in the warmth of his skin, the scent of his hair. Their noses brush on accident, and John moves his head to rub them together softly.

“So very fond.” He whispers, his breath brushing over Sherlock’s lips and he lets his lids flutter open to take in the reaction, not that he can see much from how close they are.

“Even though I talk to our cats as if they could understand us?” Sherlock’s fingers reach out and John’s skin tingles when soft fingers brush his shoulder to rest against his neck. He chuckles, covering Sherlock’s hand with his own.

“That, Sherlock Holmes, is not the weirdest thing about you.”

“John.” Sherlock says, the vowel elongated in that way only Sherlock does, and John guesses he’s trying to sound mock-offended, but the tenderness of the moment has bled into his voice. John nudges his nose again, and then they are kissing, lips barely resting against the other. Later, neither of them will be sure who closes the final centimetres between their mouths, not that it matters. What matters is that they are finally, finally here and John needs to pull back after the shortest of moments, needing time to realise what is happening.

Straightening his back, John pulls Sherlock to his feet, and when they kiss again, the detective towers over him and the doctor wraps his arms around his middle as mere brushes of lips turn more intense, as they learn the shape of the other’s mouth and the tiny noises the other makes. John’s hand seems to be unsure of what to do, alternating between stroking Sherlock’s back and resting against the detective’s neck and shoulders. His own skin tingles wherever long, pale fingers caress him.

John feels weak in the knees as his wildest dream comes true, he clings to Sherlock, to the man he loves and has loved for so long, he doesn’t know what not loving him feels like. He does not want to stop kissing him either, but has to pull back for air at one point. Not that that helps much, because the sight of Sherlock, lips kiss-swollen and red-cheeked takes his breath away all over again. It’s too much, suddenly, and more than a lover, John needs his best friend.

Strong arms wrap around him, as John presses himself to Sherlock’s chest. His smell surrounds John, dark and masculine with a hint of sweet honey.

“I have one more for your list.” Sherlock says into John’s hair, his breath warm against the sensitive skin of his scalp. “Graham, please stop watching us while we make out. It’s inappropriate.”

A dam breaks within John and he starts to chuckle, all the relief and love gushing out of him in a hearty laugh, and he feels Sherlock’s chest vibrate as he joins in.

“It is inappropriate. Creepy, really.” John gets out between giggles. Looking up at Sherlock, he is reminded of the very first time they snickered together like this, leaning against the wall in the hallway of 221b Baker Street, their friendship only hours old. Only now he gets to lean up and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I’m really fond of you.” He says.

“And I’m in love with you.” Sherlock says earnestly, kissing the bridge of his nose.

“That’s good. Bloody fantastic, actually.” John brushes their lips together. “Because I’m in love with you too.” The weight of those words falls off his shoulders where it has rested for so many years and John still can’t believe this is all real. “I can’t believe…. God, we’re idiots, aren’t we?”

“Speak for yourself, John Watson. Or kiss me instead.”

And John does

* * *

"John?"

"Yes, love."

"We are keeping the kittens, aren't we?" 

"They might allow us to stay in the flat, if we feed them enough."

"They might."

* * *

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

“I do love our cats, but if you don’t get them out of this bed right now…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have written something about cats way earlier :D   
> Thank you all for your lovely feedback :* It's been too long since I last wrote something


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